Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3)

by Jonathan Moeller

  The mob of valgasts charged, raising spears and swords of bone. The valgast nearest to Adalar raised a tube to its lips and blew, its cheeks puffing out. Adalar ducked, and the poisoned dart hit the chain mail over his shoulder and bounced off, failing to penetrate his skin. The valgast threw aside the tube and yanked a short sword of yellowed bone from its belt.

  Adalar parried the valgast’s first swing. The bone the valgasts used for their armor and weapons was hard and tough, but the strange silvery metal of the Dark Elderborn sword was stronger. His sword bit into the blade of the valgast, catching the weapon in place, and the valgast snarled. Adalar shoved, sending the lighter creature stumbling back, and struck again. His sword struck the creature’s neck and bit easily through skin and muscle and bounced off the valgast’s spine. Adalar pulled the sword free, letting the valgast fall to the ground to die.

  A second valgast leaped over the first one’s dying form, and Adalar twisted, getting both hands around his sword’s hilt. He parried four blows in rapid succession. The Dark Elderborn sword was shorter than his broken greatsword, and not quite as useful for parrying. Belatedly it occurred to Adalar that if he was going to use a shorter sword on a regular basis, he ought to have taken a shield from the dragon’s hoard as well.

  Yet even with the shorter sword, he still had a longer reach than the spindly valgast, and he was able to riposte, opening a gash on the valgast’s sword arm. The valgast let out an enraged screech, its enormous black eyes widening, and Adalar slashed his sword across the creature’s throat.

  It joined the others upon the rocky ground.

  Another valgast came at Adalar, swinging a mace with a bone head, and Adalar had to retreat. For all their short stature, the valgasts were stronger than their size indicated, and if Adalar tried to block the mace he might lose his grip upon his sword. There was a hissing noise, and one of Sigaldra’s arrows sprouted from the valgast’s sword arm. The creature screeched in fury and pain, and Adalar struck, driving his sword through the valgast’s chest. He ripped the blade free and shot a quick glance at Sigaldra where she stood between Romaria and Timothy, her bow raised.

  A quick nod of thanks and he threw himself back into the fray.

  Crouch snarled and barked, snapping his heavy jaws at any valgast foolish enough to approach him. Few were, which Basjun used to good advantage. Even as Adalar watched, Crouch hamstrung one of the valgasts, and Basjun brought his axe onto the top of the creature’s head. Earnachar laid about with a heavy mace, bellowing out one of the battle hymns of the Tervingi. Earnachar was an appalling singer, but what he lacked in musical ability he made up in vigor, and he left a trail of slain valgasts in his wake.

  Mazael left them both behind.

  The Lord of Castle Cravenlock carved his way through the valgasts like a scythe through ripe grain. His curved sword seemed like an extension of his arm, and he drove the weapon back and forth, cutting down every valgast in his path. He made it look so easy, but Adalar knew that Mazael had tremendous skill backed by iron strength.

  And as Mazael cut down the valgasts, Romaria and Sigaldra loosed arrow after arrow. Sigaldra was a competent archer, and most of her shafts landed home, but Romaria’s skill with a bow was almost supernatural. Every one of her arrows struck a valgast, and most of her shots were lethal, plunging into the throats of the valgasts, or somehow finding the gaps in their bone armor. Timothy cast a spell, and four valgasts were flung to the ground in the grip of his magic. Earnachar had killed two before they recovered, Basjun one, and Crouch leaped upon the final valgast, jaws snapping.

  They were winning the fight.

  Then a thunderclap rang out.

  An unseen force seized Adalar and flung him to the ground, his sword tumbling from his hand.

  ###

  Mazael whirled as the pale valgast limped from the boulders.

  This one was taller than the ones he had killed already, standing nearly five feet tall, thicker and more muscular. Unlike the others, who had hides of mottled green and yellow, this valgast’s hide was bone white. Elaborate sigils had been tattooed onto its hide, the symbols glowing with magical power. In its right hand, the valgast carried a long black staff, longer than it was tall, the symbols on its length flaring with fiery light.

  The pale valgasts were wizards. They were priests of Marazadra and possessed considerable power. One had almost killed Mazael at the village of Gray Pillar in the Grim Marches when the valgasts had first begun launching their attacks.

  “Ah!” said the valgast wizard, its voice a wet rasp. “The last of the tainted ones! This explains much. Little wonder she was so discomforted.”

  “You know me?” said Mazael.

  “The Prophetess of the goddess had decreed your death,” said the valgast wizard. “You oppose the return of the goddess, and all who oppose the return of the goddess shall be slain! We are free, and the goddess shall rise in glory!”

  “Maybe I agree with you,” said Mazael.

  The valgast wizard had not anticipated that. “What?” The unblinking black eyes stared at Mazael.

  “Maybe,” said Mazael. “Anything’s possible. Or maybe you’re talking too much, and you should really pay attention to what’s going on around you.”

  Because while the wizard had been ranting, Romaria and Sigaldra had been circling behind him, and they were in position. Both women released their bows at once, and their arrows flew true, slamming into the valgast wizard’s chest from two different angles. The arrows shattered with flashes of blue light. The valgast had armored itself in warding spells.

  The wizard snarled and began another spell, fires playing up and down the long black staff. Mazael sprinted forward, drawing back Talon to strike, and the valgast wizard thrust the black staff at him. He ducked, and a howling bolt of white-hot flame leaped from the staff and shattered against the ground, throwing out a spray of chips of hot stone. Mazael came out of his crouch and slashed, Talon raking against the valgast wizard’s chest. The pale creature stumbled, but another flash of blue light deflected Talon’s edge, keeping the curved sword of dragon claw from biting into the wizard’s flesh.

  The wizard snarled again and swung the burning staff, and Mazael caught the blow on Talon. He withstood the impact of the blow, but the searing fire of the staff was hot, so hot that he had to step back. Had Mazael been wearing his armor of dragon scales, it would have protected him from the fire, but his chain mail would not.

  Again he slashed, and again Talon rebounded from the valgast wizard with a burst of blue light. The light was not as bright this time, and Mazael suspected the wizard’s protective spell could only withstand so many blows. If Mazael battered it down, he could land a killing blow on the wizard.

  The staff burned brighter, and Mazael ducked underneath another blast of fire. As he did, he heard Timothy shout, and blue sparks flashed around the valgast wizard. Mazael did not hesitate but swung Talon again. Timothy had dispelled the wizard’s defenses, and this time, Talon bit into the valgast’s skinny neck. Mazael swung again, and again, and on the third strike the valgast’s pale head hopped off its shoulders in a spray of dark blood, the scarred body collapsing at Mazael’s feet.

  Mazael let out a long breath, the metallic scent of valgast blood filling his nostrils, and turned to find more foes. But there were no valgasts left, at least no living valgasts. Romaria turned her head back and forth, sniffing the air, but no further valgasts emerged from the boulders.

  It seemed that Mazael and the others had killed them all.

  A wave of disappointment went through him, and he pushed down his Demonsouled rage.

  “Timothy,” said Mazael. “Good timing with that spell.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Timothy, wiping some sweat from his forehead. Spellcasting was as great a physical exertion as swordplay. “That one was more powerful than the valgast wizards we have faced previously.”

  “Perhaps it was a high priest, rather than simply a priest,” said Sigaldra. Mazael looked ba
ck to see if she was joking, but her expression was solemn as ever.

  “Perhaps,” said Mazael. “Anyone hurt?” The others shook their heads. “Very well. We’ll continue on for another few hours before we stop to rest. As much as we can, anyway. If these valgast bands keep swarming through the hills, we might have to…”

  “Timothy,” said Romaria, stepping forward. She stared at the dead valgast wizard. “I think you should take a look at this.”

  She stooped and picked up the valgast’s black staff, and the symbols on its length glowed as she did, as if responding to her grasp.

  “Is that safe to touch?” said Mazael.

  Romaria shrugged. “I haven’t started on fire yet.” She turned the staff to the left and the right, considering it. Likely she was using the Sight to examine the spells upon it. “I don’t think this was bound to the valgast wizard, Timothy. You could probably use it.”

  “I believe you are correct, Lady Romaria,” said Timothy. He cast a quick spell, blue light flickering around his fingers. “The spells upon it control elemental flame. I should be able to employ it myself.”

  “Splendid,” said Mazael. Romaria tossed Timothy the staff, and he caught it. “A fine new walking stick. I suppose if our situation becomes dire, you can always beat a valgast to death with it.” He cleaned the last of the valgast blood from Talon’s blade and sheathed the weapon. “Let’s keep moving. Romaria?”

  Romaria nodded. “I’ll range ahead.”

  She blurred back into the form of the great black wolf and loped away, and Mazael and the others followed her.

  ###

  Sigaldra kept her bow in hand, her eyes sweeping the narrow defile.

  The path climbed up the side of the valley, cutting through the rocks like a groove. Sigaldra winced every time her boots rasped against the loose stone littering the path. The sound carried farther than she would have liked. At least she wasn’t the only one making noise. Romaria moved in utter silence, of course, but none of the others did. From time to time Romaria blurred into the form of the great black wolf and scouted ahead, or Timothy paused to cast a spell, but no further valgasts showed themselves.

  Despite their danger, Sigaldra found her mind wandering. What would they do when they intercepted the Prophetess? Their best chance was to catch the Prophetess off-guard and kill her before she could bring her magic to bear, but they had tried that before and failed. Perhaps the battle in the dragon’s cavern had weakened her. The Prophetess had used a lot of magic to kill the dragon and escape…

  “Mazael.” Romaria’s voice was tight with alarm.

  Sigaldra looked up, rebuking herself for inattention. Romaria had returned, resuming her natural shape, and she looked alarmed

  “Trouble?” said Mazael.

  “Maybe,” said Romaria. “You should see this.”

  Mazael nodded and followed Romaria, Sigaldra and the others coming behind them. Her legs and feet ached from the exertions of the day, but she forced herself to keep up. She had crossed rough terrain before when the Jutai had left the middle lands for the Grim Marches. By comparison, the mountains of Skuldar were like a springtime jaunt through a sunlit meadow, or so Sigaldra kept trying to tell herself.

  That, and she did not want to show weakness in front of Lord Mazael. The man seemed tireless. More than that, he seemed eager for battle, to enjoy fighting in a way that Sigaldra found a little disturbing.

  It was just as well that he was on their side. No wonder Earnachar had refused to rebel against Mazael until the Prophetess had forced him into it.

  Her gaze turned back to Adalar, who climbed the path with easy grace. She did not want to look weak in his eyes either. In fact, his opinion mattered the most to her. Of course, he had already seen her look weak when she had been trapped in the soliphage’s web. He had seen her naked…and that recollection brought a flood of warmth to her face.

  Fortunately, no one noticed, and Sigaldra rebuked herself for allowing her mind to wander.

  The path widened onto a large, boulder-strewn ledge overlooking another valley. At the far end of the valley, Sigaldra saw a waterfall tumbling along the rocky face of a cliff towards a stream, the distant roar of its spray coming to her ears. Romaria dropped to a crouch, and Sigaldra and the others followed suit. Together they crawled to the edge of the ledge and peered into the deep valley.

  Sigaldra found herself looking at a battlefield.

  Scores of valgasts lay dead along the banks of the stream, their bodies reduced to blackened husks. The smell of burnt flesh came to her nostrils, and she saw patches of flame burning here and there. A mob of about fifty valgasts moved along the stream, led by four valgast wizards.

  Between the valgast wizards walked a human woman.

  Sigaldra blinked in surprise, and for an instant, she wondered if they had caught up to the Prophetess at last.

  Then she realized that the woman was a prisoner.

  She wore a long coat of dark red leather over dusty trousers and boots, and her hands had been bound with a coil of crude rope. A sack had been tied over her head, and another length of rope coiled around her neck, held as a leash in the hands of one of the valgast wizards. Every so often one of the valgasts jabbed the butt of a spear into her back, causing her to stumble, which sent up a chorus of snarling laughter from the rest of the valgasts.

  “That’s her,” whispered Romaria.

  “Who?” said Mazael. “You know her?”

  “No,” said Romaria. “At least, I don’t think I do. Something about her smells familiar, but I can’t place it. But she’s the wizard. She’s the one who burned all those valgasts.”

  “How do you know?” said Earnachar.

  “The Sight,” said Romaria. Earnachar shuddered. “I can see the power around her. It’s weakened, probably from all the fighting, but it’s strong.”

  “That power might make a useful ally,” said Adalar.

  Sigaldra looked at Mazael. He had said nothing yet, his gray eyes narrowed as he considered the scene. Basjun waited behind him, so calm he almost seemed placid. Sigaldra envied him that and wondered if it was feigned or if he really was that calm. Crouch, for his part, seemed utterly unconcerned by everything. The ugly dog seemed to find the taste of valgast flesh appealing. Perhaps he looked at all those valgast warriors and saw dozens of snacks on two legs

  Well, if he did, he would have his fill.

  “Where are they going?” said Mazael at last.

  “I see a cavern at the other end of the valley, below the waterfall,” said Romaria. “I suspect they will wait until nightfall, and then take the prisoner to one of their strongholds in the caverns of the underworld.”

  Mazael nodded. “Good. That gives us a few hours.”

  “To do what?” said Earnachar.

  “This is too good of a chance to let pass,” said Mazael. “We’re going to rescue her and give the valgasts a bloody nose in the process.”

  Chapter 3: Firestorm

  Adalar rolled his shoulders, preparing himself for combat.

  “One final time,” said Earnachar, “I must say that this is a bad idea.”

  “Does Earnachar son of Balnachar flinch from combat?” said Sigaldra. “What would mighty Tervingar say?”

  Earnachar scowled at her. “Mighty Tervingar feared no battle, and neither does the Tervingi nation…”

  Sigaldra smiled. “There you go.”

  “He would also say,” said Earnachar, “that it is folly to throw our lives away in a pointless attack. Especially since we do not know if this witch woman is an ally or not.”

  Basjun offered a shrug. “She may not need to be an ally, sir. Clearly, she does not care for the valgasts. Even if we free her and she wishes nothing to do with us, she will likely resume her war upon the valgasts.”

  “Think of how many burned valgasts we have seen this day, my lord headman,” said Timothy. “Likely we would have had to fight them all if the woman had not killed them.”

  Earnachar scowled
but said nothing more. He was not happy, but he would cooperate. Mazael had made up his mind, and that was that. Earnachar would not oppose his will, especially since Mazael had been well within his rights to execute Earnachar after the siege of Greatheart Keep.

  Adalar was not sure that he could have been as merciful.

  Earnachar would not oppose the plan…but the gods knew he would not shut up about it.

  “We’re not throwing our lives away,” said Mazael. He stood at the brink of the ledge as the sun slipped away beneath the mountains to the west, throwing long, jagged shadows over the rocks. His gray eyes narrowed as he contemplated the steep valley and the churning waterfall. “We’re taking a gamble, that’s all.”

  Earnachar snorted. “At steep odds.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Mazael. “The valgasts are frightened. That woman slaughtered dozens of them, but the valgasts know they have other enemies nearby. The woman burned all her foes to death. We killed our foes with sword and arrow and blade. So they’re wondering if the wizard has allies,” he glanced at the black staff in Timothy’s hand, “and if those allies are going to attack.”

  “Which we are,” said Earnachar. “Since we are apparently now this woman’s allies.”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” said Romaria.

  Earnachar gave her a sidelong glance. “That is not always true, Lady Romaria.” He always spoke respectfully to her, though Adalar had heard him mutter about the she-wolf of Castle Cravenlock from time to time. Given that Adalar had seen Romaria’s wolf-form rip out the throats of her enemies, that respect was understandable.

  “A good point,” said Mazael. “Even if she isn’t our ally, it doesn’t matter. We’ll free her and get out of her way while she mows down the valgasts. While she distracts the valgasts, we’ll chase the Prophetess and kill her. Now. Enough talk. You know what to do. Timothy, with me.”